Rosella gave me a little more time with the page before she spoke again.
I appreciated that.
I had spent the drive to the courthouse imagining every kind of difficulty, and now I needed a moment to let my thoughts settle.
The book was heavier than it looked.
Its pages had the worn appearance of something handled carefully by many people over many years.
I had seen family Bibles that old.
My own Bible had belonged to me since childhood, and I knew how the paper changed with time.
The deed book seemed to carry a similar weight.
Not the weight of faith.
The weight of records that remained long after the people named in them were gone.
I ran my eyes over the line again.
My full name.
No other woman in the county would have that exact name.
I was certain of it.
I looked toward Rosella.
"How long has this been here?"
She considered the question.
"The record itself was made before Henrietta died."
That answer gave me no comfort.
It meant this wasn't something that had happened after the funeral.
Whatever Mrs. Lockridge had arranged, she had done it while she was alive.
She had been clear-minded enough to know what she was doing.
I thought about our Friday mornings.
Sometimes she would talk about things she had seen when she was young.
Sometimes she would tell me a story about one of her sons, then shake her head and say she was too old to keep track of everybody's troubles.
She had a sharp memory.
She knew what was happening around her.
I had never thought she needed me to protect her from her own family.
But perhaps I had misunderstood the way she watched them.
Rosella rested her hands beside the book.
"Henrietta and I talked about many things over the years. Some were ordinary matters. Others were more serious."
I waited.
"She knew she was getting older," Rosella continued. "She wanted certain things handled properly."
I understood that.
At ninety-four, a person had reason to think about what would happen when she was gone.
But why involve me?
I had no place in the Lockridge family tree.
I wasn't related to Henrietta by blood.
I had no claim to her money, as far as I knew.
I had never asked for anything beyond the wages she paid me.
I wanted Rosella to explain, but I didn't want to sound as though I expected a gift.
That was another habit I had carried for years.
I found it easier to go without than to let somebody think I was asking for more than I deserved.
"Did she leave something for me?" I finally asked.
Rosella looked at me carefully.
"I don't want to tell you something before we've gone through the record together."
I lowered my eyes.
I had asked too directly.
At least, that was how it felt.
"Forgive me. I don't mean to pry."
"You aren't prying, Elnora."
She said it plainly.
"Henrietta wanted you here. Asking questions is part of understanding why."
I looked back at the book.
I could hear footsteps in the hallway outside the room.
Somebody spoke at the counter, then moved away.
The courthouse continued with its ordinary business.
Nobody else knew why I was sitting there.
Nobody else knew that the name on that page had been written down at the request of a woman whose floors I had washed for twenty-six years.
I felt strangely exposed.
For so long, I had been able to tell myself that my relationship with Mrs. Lockridge was simple.
She employed me.
I worked for her.
We shared coffee because she enjoyed my company.
Now I was beginning to wonder whether she had thought of our connection in a way I had never considered.
I remembered the house where my mother had lived.
The white paint.
The porch swing.
The pecan trees.
My childhood had been tied to the Lockridge property long before I became a cleaner.
Perhaps Henrietta had remembered that, too.
Perhaps she had thought about my mother.
I couldn't tell whether those thoughts had anything to do with the book.
I didn't want to build a hope out of memories and guesses.
I had already spent enough of my life accepting things because I wanted to believe the best about people.
Rosella seemed to sense my uncertainty.
"Henrietta didn't make this request on a whim," she said.
I nodded.
That was all I could manage.
She turned another page to compare a detail, then returned to the marked section.
I watched her hands.
She handled the book with care.
There was nothing hurried about her movements, and I began to understand that she had probably gone through this process before.
She knew where to look.
She knew what needed to be checked.
Most importantly, she seemed to understand that I had never expected to find myself here.
I thought of Carlton again.
He had stood at the back entrance, refusing to open the door.
He had offered me three hundred dollars and told me my services were no longer required.
At the time, I had believed the matter was finished.
My work had ended.
My connection to the farmhouse had ended with it.
But the deed book told me that somebody had recorded something while Henrietta was alive.
I couldn't yet say what it meant.
I only knew the matter was not as simple as Carlton had made it seem.
That realization brought a new feeling.
Not anger, exactly.
Something closer to uncertainty with a little room for hope.
I was afraid of hoping.
Hope could make you careless.
It could make you hear what you wanted to hear and ignore the things you needed to understand.
I had lived long enough to know that.
So I kept my questions practical.
"Do I need to bring another document?"
Rosella shook her head.
"Your identification was what I needed to see today."
"Will the family have to be told that I'm here?"
She took a moment.
"The record is official. I'm not here to hide it from anyone. I'm here because Henrietta asked me to contact you."
That was not quite the answer I wanted.
But it was an honest one.
I could not control what Carlton might think.
I could not make his brothers behave differently.
I could decide whether I would listen to what the record said.
For twenty-six years, I had gone into the farmhouse and done the work that was expected of me.
Now, for the first time, I had entered an official building because something had been done in my name.
I wasn't there to clean.
I wasn't there to help somebody else.
I was there to understand my own circumstances.
I straightened in my chair.
Rosella noticed.
"You all right?"
I nodded.
"I think so."
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
She placed the tip of her finger beneath the line again.
"Let's take it one step at a time."
I looked down.
I had come into the courthouse afraid that the Lockridge family had somehow created a problem I couldn't afford to face.
Now I was sitting beside a woman who had known Henrietta for four decades, trying to understand why my employer had made certain arrangements before she died.
Whatever the answer was, I would hear it.
I had spent too long being afraid of a closed door.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: I Had Always Believed the Farmhouse Belonged to the Lockridge Family Alone, Until Rosella Asked Me to Remember Where My Life Began
For Twenty-Six Years, I Thought I Knew My Place in That Family, Until Mrs. Lockridge Asked Me a Question I Couldn’t Understand
Part 6 of 24
